


The Dragon in the Doorway

by RedFlagsAndDiamonds



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), The Chronicles of Riddick (2004)
Genre: Abuse, Aftercare, Anaphylaxis, BDSM, Blindfolds, Bondage, F/M, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Infidelity, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sexual Slavery, Slavery, Voyeurism, mutually abusive relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-26
Updated: 2015-09-26
Packaged: 2018-04-23 12:20:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4876573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedFlagsAndDiamonds/pseuds/RedFlagsAndDiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dame Vaako has no love for her husband.</p>
<p>He took her out of lust, just as she accepted out of lust for what he could give her in exchange.</p>
<p>Love is an imbalance of the body, the mind, even the soul if one wishes to be spiritual about it. </p>
<p>It’s a chemical weakness, and it’s displayed, wantonly, by the two writhing bodies not ten feet in front of her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dragon in the Doorway

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [what remains](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129195) by [neroh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neroh/pseuds/neroh). 



> This was inspired by "What Remains" by Rochester. Fantastic story, fantastic author. You rock.  
> The timeline here is a little handwavey, let's just say it's in the same 'verse as the 'Trek reboot, but in that alternate reality, Riddick never comes into contact with the Necromongers.  
> The rating is for strong BDSM practices (don't try this at home) and just general fucked-upness. Mr. and Mrs. Vaako aren't exactly nice people.
> 
> The title is from James Goldman's "The Lion in Winter," as are several lines of dialogue. It seemed appropriate.
> 
> I'm so sorry.

_When as King Henry ruled this land,_

_The second of that name,_

_Besides the queen, he dearly loved_

_A fair and comely dame._

_Most peerless was her beauty found,_

_Her favor and her face;_

_A sweeter creature in this world_

_Could never prince embrace._

_Yea Rosamond, fair Rosamond,_

_Her name was called so,_

_To whom our queen, Dame Eleanor,_

_Was known a deadly foe._

-       “The Ballad of Fair Rosamond”, Thomas Deloney (1612)

 

 

(*) (*) (*)

 

Dame Vaako has no love for her husband.

He took her out of lust, just as she accepted out of lust for what he could give her in exchange.

Love is an imbalance of the body, the mind, even the soul if one wishes to be spiritual about it. It’s a chemical weakness, and it’s displayed, wantonly, by the two writhing bodies not ten feet in front of her.

 

*

 

She can remember the early days, not so long after they were wedded, when his eyes still followed her every step through the crowds swarming the Necropolis. All it might take was an arch of her finger before he would seize her wrist, drag her behind one of the immense black columns, and ravage her then and there, like a beast.

Shameful really, how pitifully easy he was to incite.

Other occasions, he spared her the annoyance of walking the cloisters as his seed dripped down her skirts, instead driving her back to their quarters for a frolic – and while he may be weak-livered when it comes to matters of the future, in the present her Lord spares no mercy.

She still quivers somewhat when it passes her mind; however tiresome his proclivities grew, and with such exasperating frequency, the sheer heights of pleasure she’d achieved in those hours bordered on the inconceivable.

 

She’d been impaled on a marble phallus once, mounted to a pillar in their chamber, her arms stretched overhead as she writhed, her husband’s tongue and lips laving at her breasts with an almost animal desperation, the taste of her skin and the knowledge of her incapacity enough to drive him to his own moaning delights.

Another morning he’d bound her ankles to the upper arch of a doorway, between the bedchamber and the vestibule, her unbound hair sweeping the polished floor. Their fluids had slopped in honeyed trickles down her belly, spiced oils and sweet wine spilling from her brimming sex like an overflowing cauldron as strong fingers stirred along her inner walls, brought her to another and another unbearable climax as his teeth sank into the damp flesh of her thigh…

 

She’d bathe afterward, wallowing luxuriantly in her silvered natatorium, deliciously wasteful. His lordship would snarl at the excess, lips curled in helpless disgust at the exotically scented balm her handmaidens rinsed through her hair, until it shone like Tholian silk. She would only smirk in return, make herself irresistible at her dressing table, as always, watching him devise tonight’s excuse to the Lord Marshal for depleting the hydro-supply.

Dame Vaako has been called many things in her time; “highness,” “beauty,” “witch,” “whore.”

“Fool” has never been counted among the total. She knows full well the extent to which her husband comes to hate her, when she transforms him into the envy and the mockery of the empire. They call him emasculated, his wife’s puppy, and it’s to his agony that the barbs are fully true.

 

There’s no escape for him, not officially, unless she dies before her due time and leaves him free, something they both know full well will never happen – though she has no doubt he’d relish burying a dagger in her back himself, by Necromonger law he’d follow her within six hours of her death. Many call their ways barbaric, and perhaps to some degree they are, but without honor and law none of them would survive long, and the Underverse would be lost to oblivion.

 

They need each other, they know this – he’s her only path to her heart’s desire, clay to whatever mold she sees fit, and as for him… well, without her skirts to cling to, like a frightened child, he could count his life by seconds in the arena of the court. She’s made that quite clear.

 

It’s simple to remind him if his understanding seems to slip – she need only appear beside him on the steps of the Necropolis, radiant in her jewels and some rich gown, and her point is well made.

_“Remember your place!”_ he snarls to her one victorious morning, as they join the court progressing to the conversion ceremony.

_“My place is at your side, dear husband…”_ she’s quick to croon, slender arms wreathing about his armor-clad muscle. _“… From here ‘til Underverse come.”_

 

Her meaning hangs heavy in the dry air between them, his humiliation complete as she smiles, and knows it’s unnecessary to speak any further.

 

Later he’ll vent his rage and throw her about the chamber like a doll, screaming in fury – and as always she’ll turn his head before the end, let him hammer his hate into her body with his cock, pull at her plaited tresses, slap her flesh until she bruises to a lovely shade of violet. Let him think he’s causing her pain.

 

The snare was so complete, so _flawless,_ that when Vaako at last finds his escape she’s horrified to discover that she feels actual shock.

 

She’d never wanted his love, never from the start, not now – thus she can’t explain the flash of disgust and anger that spills into her gut when love is clearly interlaced with every bite and caress presented before her eyes.

 

Vaako had reportedly found the boy languishing aboard an Orion slave cruiser, in a pitiable state – a strange observation, as a Necromonger feels no pity. Whatever his origins, the Dame admittedly has no knowledge of him, or his favor with her husband, right up until the moment she finds them knotted into all kinds of pleasurable contortions at the center of her marriage bed.

That first time she could only stare, wide-eyed, her wit failing her for once. Her husband had noticed her lingering at the door, and sneered, dark eyes never leaving her face as his wet tongue danced along the freckles scattering the back of his plaything’s neck.

 

*

 

It’s been two standard months to the day since the Terran appeared between their sheets, and Vaako has never ceased to dote on the wretched, mewling thing.

 

He’s suspended upright by ropes strung from his wrists and knees to each side of the doorway into his master’s study, spread-eagled in the air, naked and vulnerable. A bit of silk is knotted around his eyes, a toy for stimulation any would suppose, but the Dame has a more favorable idea as to it’s purpose. She forces a smirk from her place in the nearby alcove, slender arms folded over her silver nightdress, and never allows her gaze to drift from her husband’s face as he works the boy into a frenzy.

 

Two can play the game of one.

 

The commander really has no one to blame for the situation but himself – any freedom he carved out was sure to be short-lived. He could have his dalliances with a slave, if he liked, but she would relish the presentation of it however deeply she wished. It had been amusing at first, even to imagine they were performing for her.

 

Her husband is sentimental enough to think of blinding the slave to her presence so as to spare him the shame.

She’d find the notion rather droll, if not for the lingering reminder that he’d taken no such care every time she went on her knees or lifted her skirts in the great halls, inches away from plain view.

 

The chamber echoes with another slap of flesh on warm flesh, as Vaako’s wide-spread hand gropes at the boy’s chest, prettily red from the blows and abusive teeth.

The slave moans again, wildly, swinging in his bonds, tossing that lovely tawny head, but it’s not enough.

“What do you crave?” the commander hisses into the shell of a pink ear, his pale, scarred chest pressed to the boy’s damp spine.

“You, my lord!” he gasps in response, choking as wet lips attack his neck, his master’s slender black braids tumbling over his shoulder.

“When do you wish it?”

“Now, my lord!”

“How much will you bear?”

“Whatever you give, m-m-“ the rest of their script is lost on his tongue as he wails helplessly, two fingers working at the tender pink opening between his well-spread thighs.

The Dame has no interest in him beyond mild contempt, but she will admit that, at moments like these, he’s really quite compelling - slack-jawed as he trembles, the twitch of his hips as he rides her husband’s fingers in desperation.

 

She is not, after all, blind.

 

Vaako tantalizes him right to the brink, before averting the climax with a cruel talent she recalls all too well. His touch ghosts away, and he doesn’t seem to hear when the boy shouts hoarsely in protest, squirming in the restraints as that darling hole clenches on nothingness.

“Please, my lord-!”

“Not yet, sweet.” He murmurs, a gentle fondness lacing his tone that his wife has never heard, as he mouths down the boy’s body, caressing each rib with his lips until, eyes heavy-lidded and nearly black with longing, he’s settled half on his knees beneath the slave’s taut form, a pale hand grasping each bound, quivering thigh.

“Please -!”

“Not yet.”

_“Please -!”_

“Must I teach you patience as well as gratitude?” Vaako snarls, digging his fingernails into wet skin. A whimper leaves the boy’s mouth, and she can plainly see the way his chin trembles, threatening overstimulated tears to soak the blindfold.

“P-please, master, it was so good – s-so good, I just wanted more, please sir –“ he babbles frantically, writhing in the air, searching for some pleasurable touch that the commander seems disinclined to give.

“And again you require correction – greed doesn’t suit you, little dove.”

His finger traces teasingly along the boy’s rim, dark eyes watching it pucker like lips begging for a kiss, while the boy makes a sound as though a poleaxe were driven into his gut.

“Perhaps it would be kinder to leave you wanting a while more…” Vaako croons gently, punctuating the reflection with a luxuriant stroke of his tongue before rising to his feet and nuzzling at the slave’s sweat-darkened hair. “And when I choose to end your suffering, you’ll scream loudly enough that every guard under the Basilica’s dome will hear, and know what a wanton little creature warms my cock at night…”

 

Her mouth is watering, but she feels cold, as if witnessing an excommunication rather than a lascivious tryst. The air seems to thin, and it suddenly becomes clear – perhaps for the first time since her matrimonial day – how precarious her situation truly is, her pride lifting like a gauzy veil.

 

Vaako’s inside him, his teeth grazing the tender shell of an ear, while the boy wails on every hard thrust. The Dame can sympathize, knowing full well what delicious agony that wicked little silver ring tipping her husband’s cock can inflict. It’s another loss she’s mourned, in this miserable spell of enforced chastity – for while their doctrines may permit her husband whatever diverse number of bedmates he wishes, she is expected to cloister herself in safekeeping. Oh, on occasion the Lord Marshal may call for her in his chamber – as he may for Dame Toal, Dame Maolik, Dame Skaels, all the rest. A practice for which his commanders are hardly permitted to complain, when it’s a royal couch their wives spread their thighs on. Truthfully, she found him quite dull, but it’s a chilling reminder that as a slender-formed female, her only hope of authority is to ride on the back of her lord and master, lashing him further and further up the steps to the inevitable throne – however unwilling he may be.

Otherwise, she’s worth little more than the whore shaking apart in his arms, whatever she’s managed to convince herself.

 

_“James…_ ” Vaako moans with a strain, and yes, that’s his name, like child’s – though it’s a privilege she’d sacrifice anything to enjoy again, just for a moment. She had a name once, long ago, a beautiful lilting name… what they’d called her when she’d been a little girl, splashing in the crystal fountains of the palace garden…

 

A puddle of their combined fluids is left glistening on the marble floor as the bonds are sliced free, and James still quakes in Vaako’s grip, whimpering as he’s carried to the bed and swathed in dark sheets that, until recently, shrouded a husband and wife.

_“S-Siberius… I…”_

“Hush, dove…” Vaako murmurs with surprising gentleness, slipping away the blindfold and stroking his fingers through the boy’s sweat-softened hair. “Your struggles are finished – just sleep.”

For a moment, it seems as though James might object, but he merely twines several dark braids around his palm, thumbing at the silver beads as the commander pets his skin, before his eyes flutter shut. Beautiful eyes.

The Dame stands silent as she leans against the pillar, toying with the frayed ends of a dangling binding cord. Her husband’s eyes sear across the chamber even while he curls beside the boy in the sheets, thumb brushing a flushed nipple to make him moan in his sleep.

“You want more?” Vaako growls to her quietly, with a look she’d often seen in his eyes before spearing an infidel or ordering a death march.

She makes no reply, a faint smile playing on her lips – instead, she merely crosses the room and strikes the small gong twice, calling for bathing water.

 

There’s no cause to gloat, when the solution is the direct one.

 

*

 

It’s a Day of Days – the natal hour of Baylock, Fourth of the Lord Marshals and last to be born into the Faith – and as is befitting, the armada is aligned into the processional for the centurial pilgrimage to Bael 7. Under the leadership of the Lord Marshal and the guardianship of the Purifiers, every Lord and soldier will renew his vows to the faith, with a certain emphasis against propagation.

An occasion of such austerity requires the unquestionable presence of the First Among Commanders, although, in accordance with Baylock’s Creed, his wife is to remain ensconced within the Necropolis with every other Necro-female. Their deference will be paid in solitude and reflection of devotion.

 

The opportunity could not be more perfect.

 

It is, perhaps, fortunate that James has never truly laid eyes on her, despite occupying what were once her chambers, her bed. She’s been laxly banished to suitably lavish but well-distanced quarters, connected to her former chamber by three corridors and a door.

 

Otherwise, the boy spends much of his time playing with the trifles gifted to him by her husband, and on the nights she choses to watch their bedroom frolics, his eyes are invariably bound over with dark fabric.

He’s whined over it more than once, claimed he wished to see the other man’s face, and it’s plain that – if the boy remains - that particular stratagem won’t remain successful for much longer. How unfortunate for Vaako.

 

He’s reading when she arrives, lounging on the chaise in the corner and pouring over the musty, antiquated things with deteriorating covers that Vaako seems to have an odd enthusiasm for – a proclivity his slave obviously shares.

The folds of her skirt rustle against the furnishings, distracting him long enough to notice her presence, and in seconds he’s jumped to his feet, the tome flapping clumsily in his hands.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t – I – who are you?“

 

Incredible to believe that, if the rumors are true, he’d been a ruler of some kind among his own people. Terrans must be an even more feeble species than she’d ever assumed.

 

“It could be at least twelve standard hours before the close of ceremonies,” she croons gently, settling herself into a nearby chair with a flutter of ornate skirts.

“and Lord Vaako thought you might sicken for company.”

 

*

 

“It’s a struggle for us all, at first,” she clarifies, before another delicate sip of nectar. “All species wish to propagate their kind to some extent – it’s a matter of finding strength over one’s baser self, and transcending the coarse imperfections which define us.”

“Then…” he mutters, and she can see the troubled creases forming at the center of his brow. “Then I guess I’m just a convenience?”

She smiles softly.

“It certainly lessens the potential for damage – there is little possibility that two males might conceive, even among our converts.”

James flushes a dark pink, and she frowns slightly at the display of rising blood.

“Strange though that he’s not yet converted you…”

“I wasn’t interested.” He replies too lightly, chewing on a macaroon, and she has to struggle to hide her shock.

That Vaako would indulge a slave with nectar and pretty ornaments is one matter, but blasphemy is another. It betrays every creed the Necromongers hold sacred, the very teachings he’s swearing to uphold at this moment on the planet below them.

The boy doesn’t seem to notice her astonishment, biting into a dark-skinned Q’o’no’sian fruit; dark violet juices bathe his full lips and she feels an uncharacteristic loathing as a very pink tongue slides out to lick them clean.

“But it can’t have been easy, just – throwing away whatever life you had before, homes, families, futures, all for one religion that promises things no one can –“

“All faiths are uncertain.” She smiles, recovering herself. “But we trust in the Holy Half-Dead. And as for my own reasons… “ There’s a pause, before he speaks again.

“No – I’m sorry, that was rude.“

She shakes her head gently, sucking a drop of gravy from her finger.

“Not many understand – and it was hard, at the start, particularly when I conceived the first time. But the pain is transcended, and we forget.”

This seems to trouble him further, and seeing her opportunity, she uncoils and strikes.

“They told me afterward it was male – I was curious, you see; did it resemble me, my father, did it have my husband’s eyes? They never told me, after it was done away with, the sex was perhaps more than I should have been permitted. As for others, I knew nothing – not the second, or the third… but by then it was no matter. Life is parasitic, and no creature wishes to propagate a pestilence.”

He’s silent, not meeting her gaze, and she doesn’t bother to hide the smile as she rises from the chair and crosses behind him, her delicate hands caressing the dark silk covering his shoulders.

 

“Just as no pestilence should be permitted to thrive.”

 

 

 

The Loracus spitting termite is an obscure creature, relatively harmless to most advanced species, but it’s well documented that some Terrans are more weak-bellied than others when confronted with the insect’s feeble venom.

 

The stone riding her knuckle hides the needle, and it’s pitifully easy to prick the barb into the flesh of his neck – albeit with a little more force than is truly necessary. She’s not without her passions.

 

The effect is almost instantaneous, as her contact had reassured her.

 

He gags several times, gasping for breath around his tongue, which has swollen to fill his mouth; a red flush dusts his cheeks, growing more pronounced by the second, and he makes no attempt to struggle when she leads him to the bed.

“Shhhh…” she soothes gently, caressing his hair as his eyes roll frantically and he whimpers something that might be Vaako’s name.

“Yes – he’ll come, eventually.” She whispers, pinning his wrists to the cushions with enforced gentleness. “Why don’t we wait here – together?”

Blue eyes plead with her silently, but she remains unmoved, her face impassive as vomit rattles in his throat.

 

It takes longer than she would have liked, and time is precious. For three horrifying hours he even seems to recover somewhat, though he remains weaker than a parasitic infant, moaning under her hands. Yet the quiescence is short-lived, and by the time a piercing gong announces the return of the transport shuttles, he’s no longer breathing.

 

*

 

She bathes and dresses alone, taking time to calmly light several braziers and kneel before the prayer window. It won’t be said that she’s impious – and piety, as well as beauty, are all that remain in her favor now, when the inevitable comes.

Two hours later, still kneeling, her eyes flutter open as the door to the chamber screeches open. Heavy boot falls ring quickly on the polished floor, counting down the seconds as she rises slowly, turns, and takes the backhand strike to her cheekbone with only a muffled cry.

The impact sends her flying against the viewport, her splayed body likely resembling a child’s doll as a fist clenches around her throat. Her knee rams out, tries to catch him in the groin, but his body is pressed too close, crushing her against the rounded window panes, and it’s almost comically reminiscent of days past.

“What now, my lord –“ she growls past her compressed windpipe. “- is this when you remind me of my place beneath you?”

“ _Why?_ ” her husband snarls back, ignoring her barb. His voice is thickened by a pathetic show of emotion, and disgust roils in her gut. “Was he such a threat to your aims? – Or was it simply wounded pride?!”

She strikes, slashing her nails down his face with a shriek. He staggers away, bleeding sluggishly, and snatches her wrists, pinning her to the floor before she can make any kind of escape.

She spits out blood, lifting her head to meet his eyes.

“He made you soft – fretting over a wretched breeder slut like an eel-bird with one chick! – there’s no room on the Throne for a tenderhearted fool!”

Necromongers do not weep, but she could swear that tears are glittering in his eyes when he throws her across the floor, her ribs aching as she finally rolls to a halt. Her vision swirls nauseatingly, heavy fingers knotting into her hair before she can regain any equilibrium, and jerking her head upright. Pain rips across her scalp and down her spine, but it’s nothing she hasn’t been long accustomed to. She manages to twist a smirk across her face.

“You ought to have known better, Vaako – it’s too easy to wring a dove’s neck.”

Something hard instantly slams into her brow, and the Verse disappears into darkness.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to give them a happy ending, I really did try, but it wouldn't cooperate. If you like, just imagine that Jim survives, and everything's okay.
> 
> I'll be writing some more one-shots that'll hopefully make up for it - one's super fluffy, 'cause I need it after that, and the other has Vaako righteously kicking some ass.
> 
> If you don't hate me too much, follow me on Tumblr, and don't forget to leave feedback below! Thanks for reading!


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